She looked across at the two fat guys drinking bourbon and ginger ale. Both of them wore highlaced leather boots. The steel toe of one showed through where the pale leather had worn away.
”Guy here says he owes Wilfred Pomeroy money,“ she said. The wheeze rattled in her chest. Her cigarette had burned down close to her lips. She spat it on the floor and let it smolder there while she got another one out of the pocket of her shapeless cotton dress. She lit it.
The guy in the ”Day-Glo“ cap said, ”Shit.“ Nobody else said anything.
”You’re not buying that?“ I said.
The other guy at the table said, ”Wilfred never done nothing that anyone would owe him money for, mister.“
The guy in the ”Day-Glo“ cap spat against the stove. It sizzled for a minute and then everything was quiet again.
”You from Boston or New York?“ the other guy said.
”Boston,“ I said.
”How much that fancy jacket cost you?“
”DayGlo“ said. At 9:50 in the morning he was already a little glassy-eyed. I was wearing jeans and a leather jacket, and in Tunnys Grill I felt like Little Lord Fauntleroy.
”Free,“ I said. ”I took it away from a loudmouth in a barroom.“
”Day-Glo’s“ brow furrowed for a minute while he thought about that.
”You think you’re funny?“ he said.
”No,“ I said, ”I think you’re funny. You know where I can find Wilfred Pomeroy, or not?“
”Maybe you want to get your wise city-boy ass stomped.“
”Don’t be a dope,“ I said. ”You’re half gassed already and you’re fifty pounds out of shape.“
”Day-Glo“ looked at his pal.
”You want to show this city mister something?“ His pal was looking at me thoughtfully, or what passed for thoughtfully in Waymark. Then he made a dismissive gesture with his left hand.
”Fuck him, Francis.“
The woman at the bar said, ”You gonna buy something or not? If you ain’t I don’t want you loitering around my bar.“
I looked around at the three of them, slowly. ”Have a nice day,“ I said, and departed haughtily. Mr. Charm, smooth-talking the bumpkins.
Chapter 17
THE Waymark Town Hall was one of those Greek Revival buildings with white-pillared fronts that abound in the Berkshires. It stood at the end of a small wedge-shaped town common in its elegant white simplicity, like a fashion model at a rescue mission. Around back the land dropped off a level and the police and fire departments were housed there in the basement. The fire department was probably all volunteer. There were two engines and no people in the firehouse. Next to it was a single door in the concrete foundation wall, with a blue light beside it. I parked next to one of the gaudiest police cruisers ever customized. It had a light rack with two blue lights and a chrome siren mounted on the roof. There were chrome spotlights on both front window columns, running lights mounted on the fenders, and mud flaps and three antennas, and a giant shield painted on each door and on the hood in gold. Each one carried the legend WAYMARK POLICE. There was a shotgun locked upright at the dashboard, and a long black five-cell flashlight clipped beside it. The cruiser was painted light blue and white.
Inside the station was a square cinder-block room painted light green with a single large desk in front and a barred cell with wash basin, toilet and steel cot, in back. The cell door was ajar. There was a stuffed bobcat mounted on a slab of pine, sitting on top of a single file cabinet, there was a calendar on the wall with a picture of a stag at bay on it, and behind the desk sat a guy in a pale blue uniform shirt with white epaulets. A Sam Brown belt crossed over his chest, and a Western-style campaign hat sat on the desk in front of him next to the phone. A sign on the desk said BUFORD F. PHILLIPS, CHIEF. He had a big gold shield pinned to his chest. It too said CHIEF on it.
I took out my wallet and showed the chief my I.D. I said, ”I’m investigating a murder in Boston.“ Phillips leaned back in his swivel chair and I could see the big pearl-handled .44 revolver he carried on the Sam Brown belt. He propped one foot up on an open drawer and held my wallet out a little to read it. He was wearing tooled leather cowboy boots.
”What the hell is this?“ he said, studying my license at arm’s length.
”Private detective,“ I said.
He didn’t speak. He turned the wallet a little to catch the light better and compared my photo on the gun permit with the real me. While he was doing that, the tip of his tongue appeared between his lips, and his forehead wrinkled slightly. Studying things was hard work for Buford Phillips.
I waited. The room was quiet except for the sound of Phillips’ breath coming noisily through his nose. He was very pale, the color of salt pork. His light hair was brush cut, and he was fat, the kind of puffed fat that seemed boneless, like an unbaked dinner roll. Finally he slid my wallet back toward me.
”You carrying a gun?“ he said.
I opened my jacket and showed him the gun.
”You got a license for that?“
”You just looked at it,“ I said.
